


no guarantees, maybe that’s what i need

by 19red, littlelocaldreamer



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Angst, Chicago Blackhawks, Drunk Sex, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:28:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25129303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/19red/pseuds/19red, https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlelocaldreamer/pseuds/littlelocaldreamer
Summary: He thinks how easy it’d be just to ask, how hard it is to imagine an answer that wouldn't be yes, that wouldn't overlap with a plea.
Relationships: Patrick Kane/Jonathan Toews
Comments: 13
Kudos: 137





	no guarantees, maybe that’s what i need

**Author's Note:**

> title from violet days, “just a little”

Patrick’s got his cock out when Jonny stumbles into the room. 

They were fighting the last time they saw one another a few hours ago and Patrick ended up leaving with some local chick who looked an absolute mess. Jonny’s shocked to see him.

“What’re you—s’happening?” The words come out slow and slurred. He stumbles against the dresser near the door, world tilting. 

They suffered a brutal loss against the Kings and Q’s going to skin them alive when they’re back home but that’s not until tomorrow. Tonight—they drink. 

Jonny’s stomach lurches. 

Patrick doesn’t stop touching himself, looking as fucked up as Jonny feels, like some sort of alcohol-induced externalization of the mess of shame and dejection raging inside him. 

Jonny’s probably just laying face down on the counter of a seedy LA club, his sloshed brain making up the nonsense before his eyes – Patrick on the bed, mussed curls sticking to his forehead, shirt rumpled halfway across his chest, skin flushed the loveliest pink. No harm in looking at what’s not there, so Jonny lets his gaze wander to Patrick’s big hand, watches it pump the length of Patrick’s cock, its rhythm faltering slightly under the scrutiny. 

“Jon,” Patrick breathes out in a voice Jonny has never heard before, not even in his most self-indulgent fantasies, so raw and pleading it makes his whole body strain with the need to act, to whiz at Patrick’s side and give him everything he’s aching for.

Jonny grips the dresser hard, feeling the sharp corner dig into his palm. The pain stings like something real. A sobering rush of arousal washes over him, anger following close after. Fucking Patrick. 

“This is my room,” he says, which is as close to _get the fuck out_ as he can manage. He sees the way Patrick’s breath catches in his chest, the tight muscles of his stomach stuttering.

“This is--” he swallows hard. Takes a step toward the bed and halts. “Do you think this is funny?”

Patrick squeezes his eyes shut, pink tongue dashing out and wetting his bottom lip. He tilts his head back to the ceiling, toes curling, hand rapidly increasing its pace. 

“Jonny,” he whispers, sounding like he’s on the verge of tears, “m’so close—“

Jonny’s anger doesn’t dissipate as he closes the final few steps between them, sitting so close next to Patrick their hips touch—one naked, one clothed. 

Jonny does what he always does—he takes the lead. He doesn’t look at Patrick as his hand wraps around his cock, taking over stroking it completely so Patrick can whine and squirm atop the sheets. 

Jonny’s brow’s furrowed in sharp concentration as he watches Patrick’s dick twitch and leak in the palm of his hand. Patrick’s big—bigger than Jonny would’ve expected. He’s caught rare glimpses in the locker room, sneak peaks he pretends don’t mean anything—but now that they’re here and Patrick’s laid bare—it’s different. 

Jonny isn’t prepared. 

“You like this?” He grunts, sweat gathering in his lower back as he shifts, placing his free hand on Patrick’s hip bone, effectively caging him in.

Jonny knows about their size difference, he’d be an idiot not to acknowledge how small Patrick is. But he didn’t realize how much he _liked it_ until now. Patrick’s totally trapped under him, hurt whimpers escaping every few seconds or  
so.

Jonny finally looks at him. 

Patrick’s pupils are blown huge and already looking back, not hiding anything. 

Unrestrained desire shoots straight to Jonny’s cock, leaves his head dizzy. It makes him forget for a moment that Patrick hungers for an orgasm, not Jonny’s hands on him, not specifically—just the convenience of them. 

Still half prey of that lying stupor, he drops his gaze to Patrick’s mouth, bitten raw and coated in a sheen of spit, and thinks of the glide of it over the length of his cock, thinks how easy it’d be just to ask, how the eagerness he saw in Patrick’s eyes makes it so hard to imagine an answer that wouldn't be yes, that wouldn't overlap with a plea. 

Patrick parts his lips on a sob of pleasure and Jonny can’t bear the sight anymore. He ducks his head and kisses him. 

Patrick kisses back immediately, like he’d been starving for it, one hand sneaking to the back of Jonny’s neck to drag him down, claw him closer while his hips buck into Jonny’s fist. 

Jonny pulls away just to savor the heady feeling of Patrick’s mouth blindly chasing after him, stubborn and desperate for more. 

“Jonny,” Patrick slurs, “Jonny,” like that’s the only word he knows. His free hand brushes against the bulge in Jonny’s pants, tugs feverishly at the waistband. “Just wanna feel you.”

Jonny moves in, close enough that Patrick’s breath fans over Jonny’s bottom lip. “Yeah?”

He thrusts his hips forward, playful and slow. Patrick whines, gently pushing the palm of his hand against Jonny’s warm center.

Patrick’s hand is big enough it covers most of his dick entirely. Jonny’s knees buckle momentarily when Patrick applies just the barest hint of pressure.

“Yeah,” Patrick finally replies, breathless. 

Jonny smirks but it’s small enough Patrick probably misses it. He leans back for a second, getting rid of his shirt, thick fingers clumsy and tangled in his haste. Why on earth is he in a button up—

Patrick makes grabby hands, moving quicker than Jonny thought possible in their mutual sluggish states. “Just here—like this—“

He literally rips Jonny’s stupidly expensive shirt down to his belly button, muttering that he’ll buy him another one when Jonny shoots him what he hopes is a very dirty look. 

“You were gonna take forever,” he huffs, sliding the shirt off Jonny’s shoulders in an impressively suave move. Jonny watches him toss it on the floor and as his head’s turned he feels hot suction against his neck—so slick and burning he sucks his stomach in to try control an onslaught of trembles. 

“Pat,” he says, trying to keep his voice neutral, “christ—warn a guy—“

Patrick moans and sucks harder, occasionally using his teeth to bite down in gentle nips. Jonny’s cock pulses between his legs, wet and swollen and begging for attention. His neck is an egregious zone. Patrick definitely knows this. 

_”The first time a girl gave me a hickey on my neck I came in my pants.”_

_The table roars with laughter as Jonny tips his drink back, laughing silently to himself at the memory._

_It’s a team bonding night and they’re playing truth or dare. All they’re missing is nail polish, assorted sugary candy, and sleeping bags._

_Sharpy’s just asked Jonny to share an embarrassing memory. It’s funny—that experience used to make him recoil when he thought about it. But something about the table he’s at—with these teammates he’s slowly learning to trust—it makes it easier to let it go and just laugh._

_“Don’t sweat the small stuff,” his dad always says._

_Jonny sets his drink down, rolling his eyes at the exaggerated howling coming from Duncs and Seabs’ corner. His eyes scan the group, wondering whose turn it is to get picked on._

_Of course his famous laser stare lands on Patrick. He’s always watching the kid. Not that anyone blames him—Patrick is a marvel on the ice._

_Jonny just hopes Patrick hasn’t noticed._

_“Kaner—truth or dare?”_

_And Patrick—he looks odd, mouth a strange shape—not frowning, but certainly not smiling. He wiggles in his chair, broad shoulders scrunched up around his head like he’s uncomfortable. His eyes fall to Jonny’s neck briefly, hooded under his long, thick lashes._

_Jonny prays his skin isn’t flushed._

_Patrick blinks a couple of times, licking his bottom lip, and Jonny’s suddenly, alarmingly hard. Images flash in his head like some filthy montage, with center stage being Patrick’s fat, pink tongue on his skin, kissing—tasting—_

_“Dare,” Patrick answers, arms stretching out under the table, probably gripping his bouncing knees that he can never keep still._

_Jonny looks at him and Patrick looks back and Jonny swears Patrick can read exactly what he’s thinking._

_He breaks eye contact, eyes sweeping along the table, rotating his jaw to ease any tension gathered there._

_Sharpy catches his gaze and winks._

_Jonny smirks._

_“I dare you to kiss Sharpy on the cheek.”_

_It’s a lame ass dare, one already used by several teammates before. But Sharpy’s so pretty, so devastatingly handsome, that it’s actually not weird. No one’s even mentioned the phrase “gay chicken”—they can all just agree Patrick Sharp is attractive. No questions asked._

_Patrick doesn’t even reply, just leans into Sharpy’s side with a dopey grin and plants one right on top of his cheek bone, looking at Jonny the entire time._

_It might be the beer, but it’s so easy then to let himself believe that the way Patrick looks at him means exactly what Jonny wants it to, to let himself hope that maybe this thing he feels building and simmering between the two of them is anything more than mere wishful thinking._

_But of course it’s not, and just a couple of days later Jonny walks in on Patrick and some random chick going at it in their hotel room, not even half a warning outside the door._

_In the few months they’ve spent stuck together on roadies, Patrick has been a pretty decent roommate—annoying as fuck, yeah, but generally respectful of their shared space. That’s why this sudden violation feels so purposeful, like Patrick’s got a read on him and is letting him know: don’t get any weird ideas, man._

_Watching the girl scramble around for her clothes, Jonny can’t tell if he feels more stupid or angry._

_“You’re mad,” Patrick says after she scuttles away._

_The kid has no sense of self-preservation._

_Jonny was going to stew in silence until he gained back some semblance of control over himself before starting a confrontation but if this is what Patrick wants..._

_“You can’t just—do that.”_

_Instead of being deterred by the steel in Jonny’s tone, Patrick takes a step in his direction._

_He’s wearing nothing but his boxers, chest all flushed up, cock probably red from friction. Jonny can hardly look at him._

_“Why not?”_

_“Are you fucking kidding me?”_

_Patrick tips his chin up in some kind of challenge, blue eyes searching Jonny’s face. “Are you jealous?”_

_The jab is aimed with such precision, it’s impossible to believe it isn’t meant to hurt._

_“Don’t,” Jonny snarls, storming out._

“Don’t,” Jonny tangles his fingers in Patrick’s hair, feeling almost as stupid as he had back then. 

Patrick’s going to leave a mark and Jonny means to yank him away. He means, don’t play with me, you asshole. Instead, he scratches on Patrick’s scalp lightly, more reward than deterrent. 

His free hand squeezes Patrick’s hips, roams over the small of his back, his ass, the firm meat of his thigh. 

He can’t decide where to rest it, frantic with the need to touch Patrick all over, pull him closer. 

“Don’t stop. Fuck, that’s good.”

Patrick moans against his skin and bites down harder. No way that’s not bruising. 

Jonny can already hear the guys chirping him for it tomorrow morning. Can imagine himself in the mirror, inspecting his skin for any evidence of Patrick wanting him back, even just temporarily.

“Fuck, you really do love this,” Patrick mumbles, grazing his teeth across the straining tendon of Jonny’s neck and closing his fingers around the length of Jonny’s leaking, rock hard dick, knuckles brushing against both their abdomens as he gives it a couple of awkward strokes, not enough space between their bodies to attempt anything fancier. Jonny appreciates it all the same. 

“Shut up,” he says, sagging for a moment, mollified by the sudden onslaught of stimulation. Patrick’s steady frame is there to hold him up.

“I wanna give you a hickey. Please, Jonny, can I?” Patrick asks, pushing his nose against the shell of Jonny’s ear, each word unrolling a warmer wave of arousal across Jonny’s spine.

Jonny tugs Patrick’s face away by the curls, pushes it back down toward the crook of his neck, where Patrick is less likely to make him shoot his load just by breathing. He refuses to be the first to come. 

Patrick whines, nipping at Jonny’s collarbone. “Jonny.”

“Bit late for asking, don’t you think? You already went full Edward Cullen on me.”

To Jonny’s utmost dismay, Patrick pulls back abruptly. His lips look nicely wet. 

“This sucks,” he says and Jonny agrees,  
“Yeah,” then frowns, “What do you mean?” 

“You just made a Twilight reference. I think you might be a figment of my imagination,” Patrick explains, sounding so absolutely deadpan in his concern that Jonny can’t help but break into a laugh.

“I’m serious,” Patrick says, pinching his bicep. Jonny emits a manly noise of discomfort in no way adjacent to a squeal and shoves Patrick flat on the mattress in retaliation.

“Just checking you’re real,” Patrick justifies himself as Jonny lays on top of him, maybe a tad more heavily than strictly necessary. They both moan when their dicks rub together. 

“That’s not how it works.”

“How does it work?” Patrick asks, voice a little breathy, as he rolls his hips up.

“Like this,” Jonny says and kisses him, biting on his bottom lip hard enough to sting. “Real?”

He pulls back, just barely, and Patrick’s got his eyes closed. Jonny kisses him on the tip of his nose, dangerously tender. 

Patrick’s eyes shoot open. 

They stare at one another for maybe only a couple of seconds, but Jonny swears they’re frozen in amber. 

“Real,” Patrick replies in a whisper, pants small and uneven like he’s scared. 

Jonny’s scared too—he can’t believe this is actually happening. But he’ll be damned if he allows any fear to show on his face. Patrick needs to be taken care of. 

Jonny’s hand skims over a perfectly toned, completely quivering abdomen.

He settles his face in the warm alcove of Patrick’s neck, deeply pleased when he feels a pair of plush lips reattach to his skin.

“Yeah,” he urges, wrapping his hand around Patrick’s cock, “keep going, Peeks.”

Patrick’s hips arch around Jonny’s thick, solid middle and Jonny has to lean back, only a little, so he can move his hand quickly back and forth between them. 

Patrick whines under his breath and Jonny turns his face to press a kiss to his curls, murmuring for him to shush. 

“Lemme take care of you.”

Patrick’s kisses on his skin start strong but grow weaker and more faint the longer Jonny works his big, slick cock. 

His hips aren’t touching Patrick’s but their heads are so close together Jonny’s willing to count that as a win since he can’t actually see what he’s doing. 

He tries his best to think of the few handjobs he’s gotten in the past, too drunk to really appreciate them. 

He’s drunk now, too. But there’s something about Patrick that snaps his attention into focus. They’re both fucked up, yeah, but Jonny has a job to do. He has to get Patrick off.

Regardless of if he’s tipsy, wherever Patrick’s concerned, Jonny won’t fail. 

Patrick’s lips skim Jonny’s bruised, sore neck and he sounds so out of it as he begs, “Jonny, please—just make me come—“

Jonny turns to him, pulse throbbing in his neck, and seals their mouths together in a proper, filthy kiss. 

Patrick’s legs spread even further in the sheets and Jonny allows his weight to fall down, taking both of their cocks in his massive grip and going for it—stroking furiously while trying to smear as much of their combined wetness as he can over both their heads.

Patrick gasps. “Shit—like that—“

Jonny brings his other hand up to tug on Patrick’s thick, wild curls, forcing his head back on the bed as Jonny grinds over and over again against his cock. 

“This what you wanted, baby?” Jonny breathes, mouth so close to Patrick’s he can’t help but lick right up the middle of his perfect pink bottom lip.

To Jonny’s shock, Patrick turns his face away and squeezes his eyes shut. 

A cold pang stabs through Jonny’s lungs. 

His first instinct is to jerk back but Patrick’s fingers dig between his shoulder blades and root him to the spot, giving him enough time to reconsider. Fleeing would be irreversibly incriminating. Once he starts, he’d just have to keep going—avoid Patrick until their friendship deteriorates to nothing in the hope of escaping the humiliation of a heart to heart. 

Fuck, Jonny thinks, if it ever came to it, Patrick would let him down so gently. No doubt, there’d be tears involved. Fuck. He can’t stomach the prospect of Patrick crying because of him.

“Sorry,” he says, voice cracking. “Shit, sorry,” he forces a laugh past the knot in his throat. “It just slipped out, I didn’t mean—”

“I know that,” Patrick says and there’s an edge to it that Jonny can’t place. “Don’t freak.”

“I’m not freaking,” Jonny says, kind of freaking. “Sorry.”

“God,” Patrick snaps. “Stop apologizing. Just--” His hips buck up. Jonny’s body responds by grinding down blindly. 

The feeling of Patrick hot and solid beneath him makes Jonny’s blood roar with need.

“You still want?” Jonny asks.

Patrick keeps his face turned and his eyes scrunched so tight, his lids flutter. The bite of his fingers over Jonny’s back doesn’t let up, though. “It’s your call, man.”

Jonny can read between the lines—are you going to stop being weird? He knows he overstepped, made things too intense when all Patrick wanted from the night was numbing, meaningless fun.

“Okay,” he nods, again hiding his face in the crook of Patrick’s neck. He inhales deeply, resisting the urge to grind down again. 

He’s going to give Patrick what he wants—a quick orgasm and enough distance from Jonny’s smoldering adoration to actually enjoy it.

He draws away from the warmth of Patrick’s body and sits back on his heels. A world-tilting pulse of arousal mitigates the loss. 

From the new angle, Patrick is spread open below him, miles of vulnerable, pale pink skin. A feast for the eye. 

He rests his hands on Patrick’s splayed thighs, stroking both thumbs along the crease of his hips. His dick looks so fucking hot, blushy wet against the snow pale stretch of his stomach. Jonny forces himself to look away before his tongue can betray him again and tattle how much the sight is making his mouth water.

Patrick slings an arm over his face, hiding it from Jonny’s gaze.

“Is this better?” Jonny waits, listening to the sound of his labored breathing.

Patrick’s Adam’s apple bobs. “Whatever you want, man,” he says, voice so thin and quivery, Jonny barely hears it.

He can’t shake the feeling he fucked up, somehow, as he wraps one hand around Patrick’s dick, but then Patrick lets out a little chocked-off sound of desperation and writhes against the mattress, arching up into Jonny’s touch so wantonly that Jonny’s mind goes blank. 

Jonny's own dick throbs where it rests against his thigh, the tip weeping pre-come onto his skin. After just a couple of strokes, he can feel Patrick’s orgasm approaching, his body going taut, vibrating with the building pleasure. 

“Come on,” Jonny mumbles encouragingly. “Wanna make you come.”

Patrick’s lips part on a soundless gasp and just like that, he tips over the edge, spurting his release all over his stomach.

Patrick shudders like he’s tapped a live wire, knees trying to close against the waves of pleasure. He groans, a small shy little thing, and it reminds Jonny of noises he’ll sometimes make on the ice. 

He’ll never not be able to associate the sound, now. 

Jonny waits, handle gentle on the heat between Patrick’s legs until the aftershocks of his orgasm peter into complete stillness. He takes a moment before shifting away. He plans to escape to the bathroom and finish himself off there, so desperate he’s nearly feral—but Patrick’s groggy voice stops him on the edge of the bed. “No, please.”

Jonny turns and blinks at him. Patrick is struggling his way out of the afterglow, trying to sit up and paw Jonny closer at the same time. His cheeks look streaked with half dried tears. 

Jonny’s heart twists so viciously in his chest that the pain cuts off his breath for a moment. 

“Let me,” Patrick urges, soft and sated, climbing onto Jonny’s lap and reaching for his dick. “Just this once, I promise.”

Jonny’s face can’t even form a frown, jaw slack and loose from shock as he watches Patrick wrap a firm hand around his arousal. 

He’s so close it’s not going to take much, but the way his thighs quiver and twitch underneath Patrick’s body give him away anyway. 

Patrick has to know the amount of control he has over Jonny; and Jonny’s going to be thinking about his monumental fuckup for a long time after tonight. But sometimes—like now—Patrick will gaze right into his eyes, irises blown out, cherry red lips slick with shine. And Jonny will swear to himself that their connection is more than one-sided. 

Even if they’re both a little out of it right now, Jonny wonders if he were to make a move sober how Patrick would react, if he would totally hate it. Jonny wonders—

His thoughts spiral into nothing as Patrick bites down, hard, on his shoulder. Like he can tell Jonny’s thoughts are wandering and he wants to bring him right back where he belongs. 

With Patrick. 

Jonny’s pathetic heart leaps to his throat as Patrick encourages him gently, murmuring the softest praise. “That’s it, just like that—so hard for me, aren’t you?”

His voice sounds full of wonder and Jonny’s so confused, hips thrusting forward in that slick, nasty grip while his mouth aches to be kissed. He turns his head, lips landing in Patrick’s soft hair. 

“Close,” Jonny whispers, heat building at the base of his dick, head getting ultra sensitive with every sticky swipe of Patrick’s slick thumb pad. 

“Gonna come on me?” Patrick asks, sounding out of breath.

“Yeah,” Jonny answers, equally winded, giddy with the knowledge that he’s going to mark Patrick, make him _his_ —

“Do it then. Cover me in it.”

His breath ghosts across Jonny’s jawline as he tips his head back, finally giving Jonny want he wants in the form of a soul-searing kiss.

Jonny groans, wild and unabashed, right into Patrick’s mouth as their tongues slide together and Jonny begins to come. 

Patrick’s warm hand starts at the thick root, working its way up with sweet, certain strokes as Jonny trembles with emotional overflow. Even though Patrick’s in his lap Jonny feels like he’s the one who needs to be sheltered. 

He’s hit with such a heavy weight as he starts to come down, sex drunk still but becoming more hyperaware with each passing second. There’s so much he doesn’t know. Has no idea what any of this means.

_Baby—_

He cringes. 

Cringes again as Patrick climbs off his lap, easy as anything, and moves towards the bathroom. 

The slamming of the door sounds so final. 

Jonny flops on his back, not bothering to put his spent dick away. Exhaustion settles over his skin. He closes his eyes, beginning to doze a little, when the door opens again and weak light fills a corner of the room.

“Are you already asleep?” Patrick asks. 

Jonny’s eyes snap open. He has the sudden urge to hide.

“No,” he replies, propping himself up on his elbows. He thinks about pinching himself just to be sure, because Patrick came back--is now standing at the foot of the bed, a wet cloth clutched in his right fist. 

The mattress dips under his weight when he climbs on and knee-walks to the center. 

“You’re gross,” he says, eyes skidding over Jonny’s supine body in a way that feels anything but grossed out. It’s enough to send a bolt of heat straight to Jonny’s dick despite the earth-shattering orgasm he survived not even a few minutes ago.

For a fleeting moment, he thinks Patrick is going to reach out and wipe the cloth across his skin himself, slow and meticulous, like a proper lover would-- then he hurls the cloth at Jonny’s face. 

“Clean yourself up,” he says, weaseling under the covers. 

Jonny complies, feeling a little dumbfounded at Patrick’s apparent willingness to--stay. 

When he’s done, he drops back down on the bed, lying very still on his side of the mattress, mindful not to encroach on Patrick’s space, even when everything in his body is longing to get closer.

“You’re shit at aftercare,” Patrick says after the silence between them has stretched long enough to become awkward. “No wonder you can’t keep a girlfriend.”

“Fuck you,” Jonny huffs, disagreeing reflexively. “I’m great at aftercare.”

Patrick makes a skeptical noise in the back of his throat and Jonny’s heart skips a beat. This feels like a challenge, like Patrick asking without asking, like something so close to what Jonny wants he can hardly believe it’s happening. 

“Fuck you,” he repeats. And then, trembling slightly as he pulls Patrick against him, “I’ll show you.”

Patrick shivers in his arms, saying with a pleased hum, “You’re so warm.”

Jonny agrees under his breath, pressing the tip of his nose to Patrick’s heated nape. His heart pounds so loudly he’s worried Patrick will hear, will change his mind and kick him out of bed for caring so much. 

Nothing happens.

A few minutes pass, and exhaustion seeps heavily into Jonny’s bones. He’s on the verge of rest when Patrick stirs, just the tiniest bit. For a second Jonny thinks he’s going to separate them— and he can’t handle the humiliation if that happens, wonders for a brief, hysterical moment if Sharpy will let him come sleep in his room. 

But Patrick doesn’t go anywhere. 

He stays. 

And Jonny lets out a small sigh of relief.

“Jonny?”

Jonny’s hand flexes against Patrick’s navel before curling delicately around his hip. He’s not going anywhere now that he’s here. “Yeah?”

Patrick’s hand covers his, squeezing for a  
second before fleeing to hide up under his pillow. 

“Nothing.”

**Author's Note:**

> first collab by 19red & littlelocaldreamer. what did you think?


End file.
